Provocation
by Joodiff
Summary: Grace didn't intend to stay the night, but she did. T-rated for language and adult themes. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** _I own nothing._

_For Scription Addict and Got Tea. Enjoy._

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**Provocation**

by Joodiff

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As she enters the sleek modern kitchen at the rear of the house, there's a moment when Grace dearly wishes she had a camera. Boyd, only half-dressed, is ironing the grey shirt he presumably intends to wear to work. It's not so much the banal domesticity of _what_ he's doing that amuses her, but _how_ he is doing it. Typically far too impatient to wrestle with the ironing board she knows is lurking somewhere in the depths of the cupboard under the stairs, he has simply dumped what she fervently hopes is a clean tea-towel onto the pristine granite counter, and is ironing the – no doubt expensive and bespoke – shirt on top of it. He's also reading through the complicated notes on the Collins case that they made together the previous evening, and attempting to drink a cup of coffee. Multi-tasking. Pragmatic, but not necessarily sensible given the nature of the combined tasks, she decides. She has no intention of criticising, however, not when there's even the slightest chance that he'll somehow cajole her into taking over ironing duties.

"Tea?" she asks instead, pausing a moment to look out of the window. The sky is blue and cloudless, and the increasing warmth of the morning suggests the possibility of real heat later. Summertime in London – always a mixed blessing as far as she's concerned.

"Kettle's boiled," Boyd informs her with a cursory glance. A glance that becomes a long and thoughtful look. "Why are you wearing one of my shirts?"

"I was never a Boy Scout."

He regards her with a blank expression. "What?"

"I didn't come prepared," Grace explains, patting him on the arm as she walks past. His skin is warm and smooth. "I didn't expect to be staying over last night. Besides, it's traditional. Mandatory, even."

"You're making even less bloody sense than usual," he grumbles, attention switching back to ironing. "What time are you due in court?"

"Ten – but Sykes thinks they probably won't call me until this afternoon." The water in the kettle is certainly hot, she discovers, but hardly just-boiled. Flicking the switch on the appliance, she amuses herself by taking the time to admire the broad width of bare male back and shoulders on display. Every sweep of iron across fabric causes a small but discernible flex of muscle beneath his skin. Mildly hypnotised, Grace studies the interesting phenomenon, a few stray exciting but definitely inappropriate – given the time – thoughts idly going through her mind.

As if he senses the intense scrutiny, Boyd looks over his shoulder at her. "What?"

Grace shrugs. "Nothing. Just enjoying the view."

Holding up the iron, he offers, "You can take over if you like."

"I really wouldn't trust myself with Jermyn Street's finest." She gives him a sunny smile. "Do carry on."

The noise that he makes in reply is disparaging. Grace watches as he returns to his task, thumping the iron down loudly. He's meticulous, of course. Collar, cuffs, sleeves. Front, back. Must be a throwback to his days as a police cadet at Hendon, she thinks. Drifting towards him, she says, "You're really quite good at that, aren't you? Feel free to do my ironing for me anytime you fancy."

"That day will never dawn," Boyd assures her, unplugging the iron and setting it aside before transferring the now immaculately pressed shirt to a coat-hanger. He stretches up to hook it on the doorframe, the easy movement of muscle under skin once again capturing her attention. The years have taken their inevitable toll, of course, but thanks to certain… personal experience… Grace absolutely believes he was every bit as formidably athletic in his youth as some of the prevailing stories amongst his peers about improbable chases and arrests tend to suggest. Lost in a pleasant daydream, she almost jumps when he turns round, gives her an odd look and says, "Well? Are you going to make yourself a cup of tea, or just stand there staring at me?"

"Let's go back to bed." The words come from nowhere, surprising her.

Boyd's eyebrows climb skywards in immediate response. "Christ, Grace – you really know how to pick your moments, don't you?"

The idea, spontaneous and unexpected, begins to take root, becoming more appealing by the second. The sensual caress of soft sheets, of soft skin… She smiles, half rueful, half coquettish. "Well, who's going to dare challenge you if you're just the tiniest bit late for work…?"

He shakes his head, increasing irritation quite obvious. "Where was all this enthusiasm last night?"

"I was dog-tired last night."

"And now you're full of the joys of spring?"

The sour note in his voice only makes her smirk. "Something like that."

"Terrific. Great timing, Grace. Bloody great."

She watches as he moves around the kitchen, far more amused than affronted by his sulky annoyance. Peter Boyd is a man with a healthy libido, and one who likes to have his own way, and he most definitely had his own expectations the previous night when she decided she was far too tired to drive home at such a late hour. None of them, presumably, included her getting into bed, curling up against him and going more-or-less straight to sleep. Stepping up behind him, Grace presses herself against his back, resting her hands on his waist. He smells strongly of cologne and fresh soap. A little too strongly. She likes the evening scent of him better, a far from unpleasant hint of sweat and musk mingling with citrus and sandalwood to create an alluring fragrance that never fails to draw her in.

Placing a light kiss in the prominent groove between his shoulder-blades, she offers a winsome and entirely contrived, "Don't be cross with me, Peter."

"Oh, please," is the disgusted response. "Stop right there. I'm not falling for that old trick."

With a quiet chuckle Grace presses herself even closer against him. "Fair enough. It was worth a try."

"Get off me, woman," he orders, giving a half-hearted shrug which does very little to dislodge her. "I'm running late as it is."

"Your loss," she says, more interested in running an exploratory hand over his flank than in arguing with him. Her palm quickly encounters the familiar ridges of scar tissue, but she's no longer cast back in time to the frantic hours after Reece Dickson's death, to the dark hours when none of them were sure that their injured commander would survive to see the next morning. Instead of momentarily freezing, her hand glides onwards, round to the gentle curve of his stomach. "Shame, though. I'm feeling rather – "

"God's sake… What are you trying to do to me?" Boyd interrupts, and she suspects that the edge in his voice isn't feigned.

"Well, if you don't know by now…" It requires stretching, but then the cool metal of his belt buckle is passing under her hand. She can feel expensive fabric, the distinct line of a zip, and beneath, the unequivocal physical proof of the effect she's having on him. Not fully hard, not yet, but interested. Definitely interested. Her triumphant grin is interrupted by the abrupt shock of his hand clamping down on her wrist, and the speed with which he pivots to face her. Grace looks up at him, not at all intimidated by the substantial height difference between them. Noting his expression of strained tolerance she pouts. It seems to have no effect whatsoever.

"Stop it," he scolds, his voice suddenly much deeper, much huskier.

She's won. In that moment she realises that she's won. Perhaps he will growl and grumble a little more, just for form's sake, but that doesn't matter. The moment stretches, charged with anticipation and acknowledgement. Her focus shifts down from his eyes to his lips. Straight, sensitively-drawn, and far too tempting. His firm grip on her wrist releases, and his arms go round her as they both lean into an effortless kiss that both teases and promises. Eyes closed, Grace lets go of her thoughts, concentrates only on sensation, on the places where they touch and the places where they don't. The rough bristle of his close-trimmed beard, the surprising tenderness and mobility of his lips; the enticing warmth of his skin. Familiar now, all of it, but still maddeningly intoxicating…

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**A/N:** _Due to FFN's continued enforcement of the "no MA fic" rule, the above is a taster for the full story which you can find in the "Waking the Dead" category of Archive Of Our Own. Please be aware that the full version of "Provocation" is adult-rated. Thanks._


End file.
